


frozen on her lips

by orphan_account



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, F/M, Natasha-centric, in which bucky and nat have clandestine meetings in russia and i think there's also a fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She swallows what's left of her humanity. And she does it for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	frozen on her lips

**Saturday – 9:23 AM**

 

Natasha stares at the ancient oak door of Volgograd’s best coffee shop, waiting for the messenger to appear. She isn’t sure what he’ll look like this time; all of the messengers are a little different, depending on the message they carry. This one may even be young and handsome. Wouldn’t _that_ be interesting.

 

Every two or three hours, she checks flight times on her MacBook, hoping one will be available when she wants to make her escape. She only flies on public transport nowadays - private jets are costly in this economy, and she doesn't have the income she once had.

 

She waits on him. Taps her foot against the stainless-steel base of her coffee table and waits on him. Tries not to look around too much. Looking around is like looking at old photographs; Nat doesn't like photographs. Too much history. Too many names.

 

She sips her tea and waits some more.

 

By the time a hulking figure appears in the coffee shop doorway, she's finished two cups of Russian Caravan and beat her high score in Fruit Ninja. She looks up from her phone in time to see him remove his hat and gloves, revealing a middle-aged man with glasses and a bad case of crow's feet. He ambles over to her and sits like they're old friends, even shakes her hand.

 

"Dobryj večer," The Messenger says in a gorgeous Russian. _Good evening._

 

"Skol'ko let, skol'ko zim," she answers. _Long time, no see._

No more chit-chat. He passes her a folded piece of paper, pays for her drinks, and leaves.

 

Natasha remains sitting, running her thumb over the paper but not opening it, not even looking at it. She can’t read it here. Not safe. Stalingrad – _Volgograd_ \- is never safe.

 

Finally, she pockets the piece of paper and walks out into the evening chill. She doesn't watch passersby as she heads down the block to her hotel. She doesn't pay attention like she usually does; she doesn't want to. Maybe that's why she doesn't see the man sitting across the street, watching her with his lips pursed and his hands clenched into fists.

 

* * *

 

**Saturday – 1:31 PM**

 

Natasha doesn't read the piece of paper until she's back in her hotel room, fresh out of the shower. She squeezes the water out of her hair with both hands, watches it drip into the sink. She picks at her nails. Stares into the mirror. Smiles at her reflection, horrified to find her grin is almost convincing.

 

After checking available international flights one more time, she opens the paper and reads.

 

It's written in a well-practiced Russian, with a few English words sprinkled throughout. She knows the handwriting well, though it's a little messier than it used to be. The writer opens with a greeting:

 

" _Welcome home, Nat_."

 

She almost tosses the letter into the fireplace. She can't be here. She can't speak with him. But she is, and she does, and she keeps reading.

 

" _I'm sorry to bring you here. I really am. I know it’s your ghost town; I of all people can understand that. You never expected nor wanted to return here, and that’s exactly why I picked it. No one will be looking for you. Or me._

_But keep your wig on, just in case. The black one, not the blonde. The blonde looks like a poorly realized Madonna replica. Haven’t I told you that before? In Boston, about three years ago? You were wearing red high heels._

_Yes. My memory’s back. For now. It comes and goes for weeks at a time. I’ve had it this time the longest – since Thursday the 7 th, 13:00. I get new snippets and images every day; today it was your wig and the scar on your back, the toy gun my father bought me when I was seven, the taste of funnel cakes at Coney Island. Kid stuff. Unimportant, yeah, yeah, sure. But at least it makes me feel human. _

_I’m risking too much putting this all in a letter. Risking way too much, but I need to get your attention. I trust my deliveryman, but that doesn’t mean he won’t run into trouble. If he does, he’s instructed to swallow or burn this message, and it will never reach you. You will return home and try to remove this all from your mind. Which you’ve gotten good at, by the way. Repression. It’s a talent, isn’t it?_

_Either you read this letter and come find me, or you fly back to your skyscraper palace and forget about me._

_At least, until I try to kill you. Again._

_Natasha, for the love of God, don’t leave. Please. Get this letter._

_Meet me at Christmas.”_

By the time she finishes, her hands are shaking. The paper wobbles beneath her touch, making it difficult to read. This infuriates her – she slams the letter onto the coffee table, grips the sandalwood. She reads his writing three more times before it seems real; she checks the words for a hidden code, but there’s nothing. _What you see is what you get._ This is the truth.

 

 _Christmas_. Yes, she knows what he’s talking about, and it’s not a time, it’s not even a day. It has nothing to do with a fat man stuffing himself down a chimney. Christmas is a _place_ , and he wants her to go there. He’ll wait there every morning for the next week, hoping she’ll show up on a Wednesday or a Thursday or a Friday or any day, so long as she appears amidst the falling snow. Like a ghost.

 

She burns the paper before she lets herself think, but as the flames crunch and devour the writing, she knows she’s already made her decision.

 

* * *

 

**Sunday – 2:47 AM**

 

He’s sitting on the 10th bench in the Alley of Heroes, closest to the Volga River. It’s late, almost three in the morning, and all but two tourists have gone home: a newlywed American couple, exchanging pecks while the snow surrounds them like a halo. It’s an odd place for romance, Hero’s Alley. The red flags flap in the wind, screaming for attention, _look at us, we commemorate **heroes**. _

 

He looks older. The long hair is gone, almost buzzed except for the fluff at the top. There are circles beneath his eyes. His lips are chapped and peeling. He looks awful, but there’s still that rugged handsomeness in his smile.

 

“S Rozhdestvom,” he whispers. The Russian Christmas greeting.

 

Natasha does not reply. She stands in front of him, does not sit down even when he extends his hands. He sits before her, almost falling to one knee, as if he might propose.

 

“You remember this place?” she asks.

 

“Yes. I remembered it for the first time yesterday. That’s why I sent the letter,” he replies. His eyes look over her, up and down, up and down, his smile widening. “Nat, I … you look incredible, I never thought … I didn’t know if you would come, I thought-“

 

“Bucky. What is going on?”

 

He stares up at her, almost boyishly. It’s a strange look for him.

 

“You’re wearing the black wig,” he says. “Not the Madonna one. Good choice.”

 

“Bucky. Answer my question.”

 

“I told you to come here, because I knew you would understand,” he says. “I _knew_. We used to come here on the 9th of December, right?” He stands, looking around him, getting slowly excited. “Because that was the only day we took a break from training, you know? We didn’t get a break for Christmas day, so you called the 9th our Christmas. _Christmas_ , remember? I remember, Natasha. I … oh, Christ. I need you to help me, Natasha.”

 

“You still haven’t answered my question. What’s going on?”

 

Just like that, the excitement disappears from his face. Suddenly, it’s dark, dangerous; his pupils dilate; his body tenses; back arches; hands fold into fists. She realizes, after a moment, he’s having an episode of panic. A flashback.

 

The amnesia – it’s killing him.

 

“You can’t live like this,” she says, gripping his shoulders to keep him from falling down. “You can’t have one foot in the world and another out of it. Your real memories are going to be destroyed by the ones they’ve implanted. The brainwashing will control you again.”

 

He grits his teeth. “I don’t need you to remind me, Nat. I expected a little more sympathy. Y’know, from lover to lover.”

 

She stands back. “We aren’t lovers, James.”

 

He meets her gaze. “We were.”

 

“Past tense.”

 

“You still care, or you wouldn’t be here.”

 

“Of course I do. The terrorists have made you their weapon. They’ve _brainwashed_ you. They’ve made you an amnesiac. No one deserves that fate.”

 

“You would know, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Mmm.”

 

The snow is falling in his hair, what little of it he has left. He blinks at her, sadly but still sweetly – something he’s always been able to manage. It’s magic.

 

“I have something for you,” he says finally. “Let’s call it a gift. From lover to lover.”

 

Her heart drops. “Is it…?”

 

“Yeah. It is.” He pulls back his coat, and reveals a thin syringe tucked in the inner pocket. It is filled with a translucent blue serum, floating with wisps of something that looks … _unclean_. “I know this is what you want. So here. Take it.”

 

He passes it to her quickly, tucking it in her bag with a flash-like movement of his arm. No passersby would have noticed; not that there are any around to see.

 

“The mind-altering serum. The last one – we’ve been siphoning it out for years, and now you have the last batch. Now it can’t hurt anyone anymore, huh?” He grimaces, torn between sarcasm and exhaustion. “So, yeah. Analyze it. Destroy it. Do whatever they make you do with it. Just … keep it out of the wrong hands.”

 

“Bucky…”

 

“Nat, I can’t predict when I’m gonna lose my memories again. It could be tomorrow. So go. Leave town while you can.”

 

Yet neither of them move. They stand there, silent, for a full minute. The wind picks up around them; the flags howl.

 

“Christmas was always my favorite time of year,” she says. It’s the only thing she can think to say.

 

“Yeah. Mine too.”

 

“Stay safe.”

 

There are no awkward hugs or cheek kisses exchanged. They just nod at one another, quiet, tired. Too much has transpired between them. But he looks at her and she _knows_.

 

The fight for her isn’t over yet.

 

* * *

 

**Sunday – 2:53 PM**

 

Twelve hours later and Natasha is ten miles out from Volgograd, deep into the forests. Yet they are not the peaceful woods of postcards; the trees are blazing, cracking from the weight of charred wood. The bark crackles and chokes, suffocating itself in the smoke. The trunks fall only a few feet away from her, and Natasha cannot breathe.

 

War. So now they’ve come to war.

 

She runs. The snow is too deep for sprinting, so she leaps from one foot to another, gripping the trees and brush that isn’t smoldering. The syringe bounces in the knapsack about her shoulders; she can hear it clink against the metal zipper.

 

He is coming. He’s forgotten again, and he is coming for her.

 

She should have taken his advice. She should have left town hours ago. Why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she leave him behind?

 

She ducks behind a snow drift, desperately trying to catch her breath. The gun in her back pocket is out of bullets. She is unarmed and frostbitten, and she is running from an amnesiac who once loved her. The sounds of his gun fill the air, and they are getting closer. He will find her. He won’t recognize her. He will find her, steal back the serum, and he will shoot her in the head.

 

She will bleed out onto the snow, and the serum will infect the lives of a hundred more soldiers, turning them into walking weapons.

 

That – that will not do.

 

So as the amnesiac grows closer, as the forest burns around her, she does the only thing she can do. She cannot destroy the serum. 

 

So comes her decision. The syringe is suddenly in her hand. Her fingers tremble; the glass is _cold_. And now her thumb is pushing it down, it is filling her bloodstream, and for a moment she swears she can see something in the distance. She swears she can see Bucky, thirty yards away from her, and he is approaching, he is grabbing her shoulders, he is screaming for her to stop. He is leaning in, he is touching her face, he is kissing her lips. Bucky’s kiss. It stays there, that feeling, until the serum is gone, disappeared under her skin.

 

That feeling, it stays there forever. Frozen on her lips.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I originally published this several months ago, but took it down to make some minor edits. Here it is again! Hope you enjoy :)


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